


Reason(s) and Emotion(s)

by Ololon



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Gen, Hint of Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:32:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ololon/pseuds/Ololon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series fic. Londo muses on the Drakh, and his relationships with the people on B5 a bit. I am still no good at summaries. An introspective piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reason(s) and Emotion(s)

It is quiet in the throneroom; he has dimissed the servants for now, and the guards remain outside, the doors closed. He watches the sun set through the ornate windows and whispering drapes. He watches the shadows lengthen. How long the days were now; how much longer the nights.

Londo had never particularly been one for introspection. It was just typical of the universe, he could not help but think, that, now that he least wanted time to think, he was provided with the most time to indulge in it. There was little else to indulge in, apart from the brivari, which he had to be careful of, and his own secrets. Secrets, and solitude.

On his shoulder, the Keeper stirs, reflexive response to the tumultous emotion, the churning thought, coming from its host, then drifts away again.

Londo wonders if the Drakh are a race of psychopaths, only without the superficial charm. Manipulation, control, cruelty…it is second nature to them. First nature, really. They had chosen Londo as much for the part of him that was good, the part that wanted to save his people and was prepared to sacrifice the self to do it, as for the part that was bad, that was all too well-versed in dark compromise and necessity over morality. Otherwise, there would nothing for them to manipulate. He tells himself that, anyway. The Shiv’Kala had been angry at him, pleased with him, disappointed with him, suspicious of him…and merciful never as true mercy, but only because he understood that the occasional merciful gesture could get Londo to do what he wanted sometimes far more effectively than the cruelty could. If Shiv’Kala ever experienced any kinder emotion, towards anyone, he has never shown it. Always, he had his reasons for doing things. Londo does wonder though, at the Drakh, at the way they do things, why they do things. Their reasons. There are so many other ways to get what one wants, and quicker, too. Diplomacy, trade, brute conquest…but no, they prefer to work in the shadows (haha), working their helpless puppets.

 _“Why don’t you try being nice to people for a change eh?”_  Londo had asked him once, in a fey mood, waving his arms about expansively to illustrate his point. _“You never know, it could work out for you. Try making some friends hmm? You know, **friends?** Bah! A lost cause, I suppose. Nature has gifted you with so many natural disadvantages. No charm, no sense of humour, no looks…when you are born, your mothers must take one look at your faces and shove you out the door with a scream. It explains a lot. You must have so much natural resentment. Perhaps, you should see a therapist, yes?” _  Shiv’Kala had just looked at him with that curious expression he reserved for when he suspected Londo was being rebellious, but could not quite work out how, and so he said nothing. Londo was not in fact being rebellious. He was just being rude, which was nearly as wasted on the Drakh as humour was.

On his shoulder, the Keeper stirs, but even its semi-dumb intelligence knows that it is only detecting memory, and emotion, rudeness but not rebellion, and it falls back into its half-slumber. It does not understand anymore than Shiv’Kala; somewhat less, in fact.

Londo had known it would be difficult. He had known the hard choices – ha! but there were no choices, he had said so himself – the hard decisions, no not even those, the hard actions he would be forced into. He had thought that he could keep it political. But he had known that it was the personal that would hurt the most.

He remembered Sheridan’s confused outrage to his declaration that rescuing Delenn would be an act of charity. Yes, that had been a bitter wrench, that Sheridan would never know that Londo, who once had never apologised, and had certainly never _begged,_ had begged the Drakh for Delenn’s life. But no, he had had to be, as Mr Garibaldi would say, the Bad Guy. He had wanted Sheridan to see, to somehow guess, but the President had too much else to do, to fix…and besides, well, besides, Londo had outraged him many times before. He would get over it.

He remembered Vir’s perplexed, wounded hurt at his speech; yes, that had been a blow. Vir, whose one hard, cruel choice was to kill an evil emperor; a small comfort it was, a piece of hope to cling to, that Vir should not be forced to the actions that Londo was. But then Vir had not so thoroughly compromised his soul as Londo had.

He remembered Delenn’s concerned puzzlement at their parting; she, perhaps, of all of them, had sensed that something deeper, something darker, was wrong. And that stung, that concern, as it always did, because it always had felt too much like pity. Yet she had not known what it was, had caught only a glimpse; her path no longer aligned with his, and so she had walked away.

Yes, that was the worst, that was what left the bitter taste in his mouth. That puzzlement. That perplexity. That confusion. They had expected _better_ of him, in spite of it all, and he…he had not wanted to disappoint that expectation, shatter the illusion he had constructed for himself that he was, in fact, a better man, and that it was not an illusion, because they believed it to be real.

A better man. G’kar had been right about that, of course. He had not been puzzled. He had said he had understood, and he had been wrong about that. _Pray that you never do,_ Londo had said, because understanding would bring him danger, because understanding would mean experiencing what Londo experienced, and Londo would not wish that on anyone, not even, haha, his worst enemy. His old friend. G’kar had forgiven him; he clung onto that, on the long nights when he could not sleep and the drink did not help. G’kar had said _I can forgive you,_ and he pondered, now, over that choice of tense; whether perhaps G’kar had, after all, understood more than he said, that Londo would need more forgiving, for more sins, before their time was done.

Not for G’kar though, not anymore. He had kept his word, as he said he would. As he had told G’kar he would. It was a matter of honour, not of sentiment, of course. Of course it was. Sometimes, sometimes…he _was_ a better man.

It is only when his own shadow has lengthened to a monstrous size in front of him, and the last light of the sun is blood-red, like Narn; it is only then that another reason occurs to him, only then that he finally admits to another emotion. That, as the ships started to bombard Centauri Prime, and all that he had dreamed was truly in ashes before him, he had known he could do nothing more to save the world he loved, and so he had run to save the only other thing he held dear that he could preserve.

On his shoulder, the Keeper stirs, but does not understand.


End file.
